


are we destined to burn, or will we last the night

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: Steve and the reader grow up together, grow apart, and find their way back to each other
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader
Kudos: 48





	are we destined to burn, or will we last the night

**AGE 10**

Steve’s favorite game to play is pretend. While the other children tumble up and down plastic slides or jump off swings during recess, Steve always drags you into the dirt, feigning sticks as swords and the dirt yard as a battleground. Sometimes you’re knights rescuing princesses, and sometimes you’re slaying dragons, and sometimes you’re wild animals prowling through a jungle.

For as long as you can remember, Steve has been beside you - playing pretend or facing reality. But as time passes, you grow out of make-believe, the games less satisfying as the world expands around you. Steve, however, never lets go of playing pretend. When everyone else sheds their false identities, Steve grabs on tight and holds.

Most children stop playing pretend. Steve Harrington never learned how.

**AGE 15**

Steve gets dragged into Tommy H’s perfect pretend world of popularity soon after high school starts. You’re sat halfway back in the bus, Steve on the aisle side, you against the window, when Tommy ambles through the bus door with Carol and another boy on his heels. He catches Steve’s eye, his thick brows arching and a sly smile tugging on his lips.

“The hell you doing up here, Harrington?” Tommy asks, as if they’ve been friends for years rather than just classmates who never spoke. “Come sit in the back with us.”

Even as a middle schooler, Tommy was cruel and arrogant, avoided by all but his tight group of friends. It appears he’s in the market for more, and that Steve is his latest conquest.

You don’t expect Steve to even engage with him - he and Tommy have never been friends, always icy to one another - but to your surprise, Steve meets your gaze and asks, “You mind?”

It’s so much of a shock that you can do nothing but nod, blank-stared. Steve’s gaze darts to Tommy and his little group, and something indecipherable - like yearning, or wistfulness perhaps - flickers in his eyes. When he meets your gaze again, something is different; something you aren’t even fully aware of yet.

“I’ll see you at lunch?” He asks with that dopey smile and hopeful eyes, like he genuinely believes he’ll join you later; for the moment, you believe it, too.

“Yep,” you say. “Have a good first day, yeah?”

He grins and reaches out to flick a finger against your backpack strap, and says, “You too. I want to hear all about it.”

“Lunch,” you say.

“Lunch,” he agrees, and stands from the seat you share, following Tommy and Carol to the back of the bus, where they plop into the last row. Within seconds Steve is laughing at something Tommy said, and he’s handing Carol the apple from his lunch sack, like he’s spent a hundred bus rides with them, like they’ve always been friends.

You don’t see him at lunch, instead resorting to a table with a few people you recognize from classes, and on the bus ride home, Steve follows Tommy and Carol to the back of the bus, passing by your seat with an apologetic smile and a flick to your backpack strap.

And just like that, fifteen years of friendship fizzles out like a sparkler. Bright burning, but non-lasting.

**AGE 16**

Steve’s grandfather passes away three months into sophomore year, but you don’t hear the news from him; you haven’t so much as spoken more than ten words to one another in months. He climbed his pedestal and settled into his new crowd, and you fell into your own, and the story of you and Steve Harrington’s friendship was tucked away and hidden. As if it had never been a story at all, but a fever dream.

While he may not be your best friend anymore - or even your friend at all - it’s impossible to chuck so much time caring about him into the trash, just like that. When your parents tell you about the passing, you find yourself almost in tears for him; for the boy who seems to have forgotten you exist, or simply no longer cares. For the boy whose parents are cruel and cold, for the grandfather Steve found a family in.

You find him by his locker in the hall between classes, not sure what to say, but feeling like you should say something. Tommy, Carol, and a redhead whose name starts with an M are huddled around him, all laughing about a joke you miss. They go quiet when you approach, and Carol’s face twists into a look of disdain.

“Hey, Steve,” you say. He meets your gaze, something like shame showing in his eyes for a split second before a wall slams down. “I just…I wanted to say I’m sorry. For…” You glance at his friends, then back at him. “For your loss.”

His lip curls, a viciousness you’ve never seen before flashing in his eyes.

“Excuse me?” He asks. He looks to his friends, and for a second, only a second, fear flashes in his eyes; like you’re holding a curtain and threatening to rip it open.

“Your…” you stop, realizing _they don’t know_. He didn’t tell them someone died, likely didn’t mention anything at all. It’s an odd actualization: he always told you everything. But it seems that these people know as little about him now as you do, and they’ve spent the last three months by his side. “Never mind.”

“Are they having a stroke, or something?” Carol asks, folding her arms, lips quirking up in a sneer. Her words bite, and you press your lips together; you shouldn’t have come over. You shouldn’t have tried; you should have just respected the line Steve drew in the sand, kept away like he clearly wanted. You were a reminder of an old life, of another Steve, one he didn’t want to look at.

Somewhere between August and October, the Steve you knew disappeared. The boy you’d spent years tackling in the lake, the boy who used to bake you horrible cookies when you were sad, the boy who made you fifteen different Valentine cards when a cruel boy in class had joked about you never receiving any, was gone. The boy you’d grown up with was _gone_ , shoved into a cell and locked away.

When Steve Harrington as you’d known him burned away, it was the King of Hawkins High who rose from the ashes.

**AGE 17**

“He’s so hot,” your best friend Emma raves at lunch, chin in her hands, gazing longingly across the cafeteria at Steve and his friends. You follow her line of sight, wincing when you land on him.

“God, seriously? He’s a dick.”

“A beautiful, _handsome_ dick, with _amazing_ hair,” she says, a dreamy look in her eye.

“Never gonna happen,” you say, doing your best to keep your voice level. Your friendship - ex friendship - with Steve Harrington isn’t something you go around sharing, and even your best friend doesn’t know the extent. She knows you grew up across the street from one another, and nothing more, the way you want it. The details would just draw attention you don’t want and force questions you don’t have answers to.

_What happened between you?_ You still don’t know. _Why_? No fucking clue.

“Besides,” you say. “He’s been following Nancy Wheeler around like a lost puppy for weeks. That ship might have sailed.”

“She’s _so_ not his type.”

You snort, throwing a French fry at your friend, who ducks to catch it in her mouth, lips curled up in a wide grin as she chews.

“And you are?” You ask.

“You don’t know! Maybe he’s, like, super sensitive on the inside. Or a big dork. Or collects, like, quarters, or something.”

Once upon a time, perhaps. But the soft, silly Steve you knew hasn’t shown his face in over a year.

“Or, he could just be a pretentious popular asshole,” you counter.

Emma shakes her head, confident in her observations of Steve, unaware that you’ve got more background information than anyone else in this school; you hope to keep it that way.

“Nah, I’m calling it. It’s an act,” she says. And though it feels a little naive, you want to believe her; you want to believe that he isn’t lost, isn’t all gone. But the thing about playing a part for so long is that sometimes, you forget it’s a part at all. You wonder if Steve has forgotten, too.

**AGE 18**

Nancy Wheeler rips his heart to pieces in front of a houseful of teenagers, and though it’s immature and selfish and downright shitty, you can’t help the little voice in the back of your head that says _serves him right_.

It’s been a long time since you’ve spoken to Steve - longer since you were friends - but you’re surprised to find sadness - sadness for him, for his hurting - beneath your selfish anger at him. As much as you’d like to just _not care_ , you’d be kidding yourself if you said you didn’t. Of course, you do. You can’t grow up beside someone like that and kick them off; your roots grew together, woven and overlapping. It’s like, each time you think you’ve picked the last weed, more turn up. Like the Hydra, growing back two heads for each one lost.

Part of you wants to call him, or to simply cross the street and knock on his door, make sure he’s okay. It’s not like his parents will be there for him, or his so-called friends.

But that isn’t your right, anymore. It hasn’t been since the day Steve traded a seat with you on the bus for a kingdom; a high school, but still a kingdom. And as much as you might want to talk to him, there’s nothing left to say. There hasn’t been for a long time; it just took you a while to figure it out. The boy you love - _loved_ \- doesn’t exist anymore, and no amount of wanting will bring him back.

**AGE 18**

A soft knock on your window rips you out of sleep sometime after midnight and you roll out of bed, squinting through the dark curtains to decipher the figure standing outside. You carefully tug them aside, lips turning down in a frown when you identify the battered boy standing on your lawn. Steve Harrington, a hoodie shadowing his face. You shove up the window pane and lean out, willing your hammering heart to slow.

“King Steve? At _my_ house? To what do I owe the honor?” The words drip sarcasm, and when he flinches at the old nickname, you feel a trace of regret. The regret turns to shame when he removes his hood, revealing a swollen and bloody face.

“What the hell happened to you?” You ask.

Instead of answering that questions, he answers another, “I had nowhere else to go.”

And maybe its because its late and you’re tired and not making good choices, or maybe its because he looks so miserable standing there, or maybe its because you’ve missed him more than you’ve admitted to yourself, but you step back from the window and gesture for him to climb in. He does, careful not to knock anything over as he pulls himself through the window; last time he did so, he was a foot shorter and years younger.

You flick on the lamp and head for the bathroom, turning on the light and ducking to remove the first aid kit from beneath the sink. Steve follows you in, and you gesture for him to sit on the closed toilet seat, dropping onto the edge of the bathtub beside it.

“What happened?” You ask again, opening the first aid kit and pulling out alcohol and gauze. You douse one of the pads and lift it to a cut on his cheek; he hisses and tries to pull away, but you grab his shoulder and pin him in place.

“Billy Hargrove,” he says curtly.

“Is this one of those, _you should see the other guy_ , situations?”

He frowns, and says, “Unfortunately not.” You shrug and nod.

“Sounds about right.”

He flinches at the cruelty in your words, and you kick yourself internally. You clean the rest of his face in silence, keeping your focus on the monotony of the gauze pads and alcohol, but don’t miss the glances Steve sends your way. Only once his face looks less like the bottom of a meat grinder and more like an actual face do you address him again.

“Why are you here, Steve?”

He drops his gaze to his lap, picking at the hem of his shirt.

“I…I think I got lost.”

You frown, brows furrowing.

“I don’t understand.”

His lips part, and he lifts his gaze to yours, the wall that’s been up since freshman year nowhere in sight. He looks like the Steve you remember, the one you grew up and fell in love with, the one that walked away. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him until now; how angry at him you are.

“I thought-I thought I knew what… _what mattered_ , you know? I thought I could only find it if I was… _that person_. I thought I knew what I _wanted_. And now…none of it makes sense. All the shit I thought was important, just, _isn’t_ anymore. And I don’t know what to do.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you say. He closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them, the transparency in them smacks you like lightning, pinning you in place.

“I fucked everything up,” he says. “I was an asshole. And I know I’ve got no right showing up here, asking for your help, but I…” his jaw clenches, “I _miss_ you.”

“Steve,” you whisper, for lack of anything else to say.

“I got lost, and I left you behind. But I don’t-I don’t want to be lost anymore. I don’t want to keep screwing things up.”

“It’s been a long time,” you say, voice shaking. You’ve spent too long mourning him to trust that he’s found a way back; that he wants to find a way back.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry. But I’m tired of pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“Pretending that I don’t know what I want,” he says, holding your gaze in a vice grip.

“And what is it you want?” You ask.

“What I’ve always wanted,” he says. “ _You_. It just…took me a while to figure it out.”

Hope blooms in your chest, warm and welcoming; it’s a sensation you’ve not felt for a long time. It’s a scary feeling, so big and full of dangers, full of a million possibilities.

You let a hand settle against his cheek, gentle against his bruised skin, and he leans into you, eyes falling shut for a beat. Your stomach turns over, heart beating like a kick drum, so loud you’re shocked Steve can’t hear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for being such an asshole. For walking away.”

“I’m sorry for letting you,” you say. His lips part, like he’s going to say something, but instead of speaking, he throws his arms around you, the hug surprising but welcome. You wind your arms around him, holding tight, vowing never to let go, again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled by your hair. You smile and pull back to look at him, bruised and broken face cupped in your hands.

“I missed you, too,” you say.

And when you kiss him, you can taste the future on his lips; in it, you’re together. You don’t know what comes next, what obstacles will be shoved into your path, but you know one thing: Steve will be by your side. And somehow, that’s enough.


End file.
